I will join the hordes of artists in their examination and contemplation and subsequent excretion of COVID-19 things. The following is a poem about biology, which I wrote according to the “20 Little Poetry Projects” exercise created by Jim Simmerman, which can be found here.
The virus is a flower; it wants to sprout in the sun.
The moon is actually a giant satellite mirror,
a reflection of what the Earth really looks like.
Paint shimmers splintered, crackling in formaldehyde.
I taste the shadows of the craters of the moon.
Charles I dances in Studio 54
like a flower—no,
like a virus—very different things.
Cancer, too, just wants to live,
but I don’t think there is much need
to personify anything anymore at all.
“Your mom,” said the boy, and it was a sentence.
I step on a daisy and kill someone in New York;
that’s on period, no cap.
The seductive quilt of illness.
Spring comes; the flies mate.
All the little maggots open their eyes to fresh sun.
Charles I stops dancing, slides down the bar,
asks if I want a drink.
I say, “Sir, I am socially distanced.”
“Ella Bella,” he slurs to that daft girl,
“Rocks or no rocks?”
He may hog the bedsheets later
or snore like a mutt.
Pimply flowers never cease blooming.
Everything addicted to sun
elbowing to the front.
I will do my part in killing Queen Corona
by donating money, isolating,
burning the lawns of my block with gasoline.
“Homo fuge, homo fuge,”
warn the blistering roses between my toes.
Charles I kisses me sweetly;
petals fall from his mouth.